


Silver as Sunlight

by Ramasi



Series: Fire-Breathing [5]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Dark, Established Relationship, M/M, Season/Series 04
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-22
Updated: 2011-12-22
Packaged: 2017-10-27 20:52:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/299929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ramasi/pseuds/Ramasi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on 4x12, end of season spoilers. Sometimes Merlin needs a break from the regular Arthur.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Silver as Sunlight

**Author's Note:**

> Just so this is clear, the rape is between Merin and Arthur (though I guess you can read very dubious consent?). Non-graphic. There's a mention of Gwen/Arthur as well. Minor (I'd say) spoilers for 4x13 as well (this is written before the episode airs).

Sometimes, dealing with the king just gets tedious.

He loves Arthur with all his heart, believes in Arthur with all his heart. If he didn't, he might have left long ago, destiny be damned. But he has faith in his king's future, not only because it was foretold, but because he sees him act, choose, struggle every day. And so he stays, to push him on, to guide him, to support and save him, and to lead him, hopefully, to the changes that will lead to his own liberation and elevation, and that of people unjustly persecuted like him.

He stays. He washes Arthur's shirts, polishes his armour, serves him at table; he vanquishes his enemies without ever being thanked for it; he puts up with Arthur's jibs, his unjust threats, his unjustified arrogance. He puts up with Arthur always thinking he knows _better_ , when, really, he never does.

Only, sometimes it gets too much. Arthur regains his kingdom, as he should, from his sister, who has become a monster (the dragon was right about her from the start, it turns out). He marries Gwen, as he should. He retrieves Excalibur, as Merlin meant him to. He sits upon his throne again, and Merlin is content as after a day's work well done, or he would be, if he didn't grow tired, sometimes, of Arthur's constant, vaguely friendly condescension. He knows that Arthur can be different; the king has these things _in_ him, the self-doubts, the courteous, polite behaviour, the deserved trust in him, Merlin.

Merlin knows this because his spell brought it forth.

The sunlight is slowly dying a bright, blood-red death when Arthur walks in that evening. King and Queen might share a bed, on most nights, but they do not share a room. Tonight, Arthur returns from Gwen early, after a brief goodnight, tired and bad-tempered; Morgana has had crops burned in a bid to force her subjects' subservience, and famine is threatening. In a sense, Merlin finds the king's worry for his people endearing, for Morgana made sure there would be food enough to feed Camelot's ruler, and Arthur and his men are not the ones who will have to go hungry. But then, it is also a fact that it is Merlin and Gaius who will have to spend sleepless nights searching for a miracle to save them, so there is a part of Merlin, too, that _seethes_ when Arthur throws down the goblet Merlin just filled with wine in an angry gesture, spilling its content over the floor. He, of course, will be expected to clean up later. On most days, before that spell, Merlin would have complained, they would have argued, but he is so tired of the unfairness of it, of all the things he can't _say_ in those very arguments!... On most days, he would have had them anyway, but today he is exhausted, and he too deserves some rest.

He speaks the words.

Arthur is sitting by his table, staring morosely at the door across of him like it is responsible for all his troubles. In a few moments, he would have thrown complaints, needed reassurances, craved a subservience from him that Merlin is happy to grant until he remembers that it doesn't start and end in bed. But now, as the spell takes hold of him, Arthur's face changes; his features seem to relax, his hands, balled to fists, go flask, his blue eyes go brighter, somehow, with a kind of wonder.

There's a pause. Merlin lets out a deep breath, lets the constant tension leave him at last.

"Clean up the wine," he says.

Arthur turns his head to him slowly. Appealing hs the guileless look in them is when he's like this, Merlin misses his eyes' usual sharpness. You can't have everything.

"The wine?" the king repeats.

"You threw down your full goblet just now," Merlin explains patiently. "You shouldn't have done that."

"Oh," Arthur says, and now he looks down at the mess, then hesitantly goes to his feet. "You're right. I'm sorry."

He sounds it, too. Merlin smiles.

"It's fine. There's a rag over there."

He might have sent Arthur for water too, but if he meets anyone on the way, there will be questions. Still, it's extremely satisfying to see Arthur kneel down on the floor and go to work, letting the rag soak up the red liquid, rubbing over the wood in a way that might make more harm than good – no matter. It's more a matter of principle than about the workload anyway.

Merlin watches him from his spot a few feet away. A few times, Arthur looks up at him, unsure, it appears, and Merlin smiles and gives him an encouraging nod, and that seems to do the trick. They stay like that for longer than is necessary, and Arthur might never have stood back up at all if Merlin hadn't said, after a while:

"That's enough."

Arthur immediately goes to his feet, not without retrieving the goblet, which he carefully places back on the table. Merlin walks over, fills it, drinks deeply. Arthur watches him, his bright eyes trained on the movement of Merlin's throat.

Merlin denies himself another glass; he gets drunk too easily, and he can't leave his king without secure supervision in this state. Instead, he takes Arthur's hand.

"How are you?" he asks.

Arthur frowns, like he needs to think.

"I'm worried," he says, though it comes out like half a question.

"I know," Merlin says softly; there's nothing he can do but ease the worry for a bit. "It's going to be alright, I'll think of something."

Arthur looks relieved.

"Thank you."

Merlin smiles again, and lifts the royal hand to his lips and kisses its finger, right above the ring; Arthur follows his movement with curious eyes.

"Come," Merlin says.

Arthur does. Follows him to the bed, lies down compliantly, doesn't kiss him and ravages his mouth like he is searching in him for all the faith and the affection the rest of the world can't give him, doesn't cling to his body, hard and demanding and lost, and trusting in a desperate, unsatisfying way.

Merlin doesn't mind these things, or not overly. But sometimes, he wants something different, something simpler, something that is only about _them_. Sometimes he doesn't want to hold back and worry that magic might spark from his fingers when he comes, or about the damning promises he might make in the immediate afterglow.

Sometimes he just wants this, Arthur's lips, unsure and eager as Merlin tells him to kiss back, his body so familiar and pliant, his gaze trained on his, waiting for his wishes. Merlin is able, now, without hurry, to trace over every part of this beloved body, to kiss tenderly and slowly, without needing to wait for the strange, unspoken openness of early morning, Arthur's lids, his brow, his cheek, ever part of his face as if learning it by touch. He can, at last, stare at Arthur in the last, greying rests of sunlight, without having to hear a stupid, cocky remark from his lover, that is affectionate, at best, in an endlessly roundabout way.

He's free to speed up and slow down without another will constantly pushing and pulling back; instead Arthur matches his movements, the gaze in his eyes peaceful and loving to the last. There is memory there, buried deep, of gestures Merlin loves, that Arthur repeats without the need of a command, the more so the closer they come, when Merlin's words grow erratic and weak.

After, Arthur says "gladly," when Merlin asks he put his arms around him, and "is this right?", confused, because he _is_ a half-wit, and hugging never was his strong point even with his mind all there. Merlin smiles into the crook of his neck, pleasantly tired now, and at peace.


End file.
